whom I met at Trieste. He advised turning my back on Europe,
and trying the effect of scenes of life that would be new to me. I hired
a vessel, and sailed out of the civilized world. When I next stood on
_terra firma,_ my feet were on the lovely beach of one of the Pacific
Islands.

What I suffered I have not told yet, and do not design to tell. The
bitterness of those days hid itself from view at the time--and shall keep
its concealment still. Even if I could dwell on my sorrows with the
eloquence of a practised writer, some obstinate inner reluctance would
persist in holding me dumb.

More than a year had passed before I returned to Trimley Deen, and
alarmed my stepmother by "looking like a foreign sailor."

The irregular nature of my later travels had made it impossible to
forward the few letters that had arrived for me. They were neatly laid
out on the library table.

The second letter that I took up bore the postmark of Genoa. I opened it,
and discovered that the--

No! I cannot write of him by that mean name; and his own name is still
unknown to me. Let me call him--and, oh, don't think that I am deceived
again!--let me call him the Penitent.

The letter had been addressed to me from his deathbed, and had been
written under dictation. It contained an extraordinary enclosure--a small
torn fragment of paper with writing on it.

"Read the poor morsel that I send to you first" (the letter began). "My
time on earth is short; you will save me explanations which may be too
much for my strength."

On one side of the fragment, I found these words:

"... cruise to the Mediterranean for my wife's health. If Cristel isn't
afraid of passing some months at sea..."

On the other side, there was a fragment of conclusion:

"... thoroughly understand. All ready. Write word what night, and what
... loving brother, Stephen Toller."

I instantly remembered the miller's rich brother; thinking of him for the
first time since he had been in my mind for a moment, on the night of my
meeting with Cristel. On the fourteenth page of this narrative Toller's
brother will be found briefly alluded to in a few lines.

I returned eagerly to the letter. Thus it was continued:

"That bit of torn paper I found under the bed, while I was secretly
searching Mr. Toller's room. I had previously suspected You. From my own
examination of his face, when he refused to humor my deafness by writing
what I asked him to tell me, I suspected Mr